Even In His Folly
by question-conjecture
Summary: The Doctor arrives in Clara's apartment for their customary adventures, only to find that she hasn't been home for several days. Upon further inquiry, he learns from Danny Pink that she was hospitalized after a brutal attack, and The Doctor takes justice into his own hands. Rated for depictions of violence/injuries, and use of language.
1. Discovery

"Clara," his voice rang in stillness as sinewy fingers drummed upon the doors of the Tardis. A new cut, gray hair standing slightly array, and his traditional black jumper were all the effort he made for their regularly scheduled adventures. The outer limits of space and dawn of time awaited them, and he had something particularly wonderful planned for the day.

The Doctor was met with silence and answered his own echo, her name fresh on his tongue since the last time he gave voice to it in her company. A simple goodnight, drawn from the hasty farewell she bid him as she rushed off for another date with Pink. His lips almost curled at the thought of him, an old snarl building in his throat.

He swallowed, stepping across the threshold of his blue box and into the untouched disarray of her bedroom. Glancing around, he called her name a third time. Nothing. He absently smoothed his hands over the wrinkled sheets on her bed, vacant of her duvet and the frilly pillows she insists are comfortable. He's felt them before, and disagreed.

"Spending the night with the soldier, then?" He questioned the plants by the kitchen sink, noting the pathetic state of their leaves as he rummaged around her apartment. Abnormally pathetic – he corrected – Clara's ability to tend to the greenery suspect at best. The soil in the pot was flaking and bland, crumbling to the touch and arid. The lines of his brow pinched together in concentration. Abnormal.

Long strides brought him back to the Tardis, the doors closing with an over embellished snap. Even alone he cannot help the eccentricities, his fingers played unwritten symphonies as he walked circles into the floor. Though he often intruded on plans she previously made, it was unlike her to not even leave a note.

The Tardis hummed familiarly as he adjusted the date for Friday evening. It took only seconds for the five day transportation into the past, but he lingered at the levers. He was aware of his own presence, his breath, the spot too close to the bedroom door where the Tardis customarily appeared. He saw her entering the doors that once kept her from within, the smooth gloss of her skin warmly complementing the way he redecorated. Unintentional, of course.

Of course.

Eyes blank and he feels detached. She was no longer there, smiling before him. He was alone. He did not consciously keep track of how long he stood there; looming over the books and round things he could not find enough of. Subconsciously, he registered that two hours passed. Come and gone. Days to children. Moments to adults. Barely a second to the Time Lord.

When he finally emerged from the Tardis he was hopeful at the sight of the pillows and duvet intact on her bed. The plant, on the other hand, was less welcoming. The soil was more lively, the scent of the tap clinging to the drying roots, but there was still a lack of daily care. There was, however, a scent he did not come across Wednesday, a warm and sickening smell which rebounded off of his senses. He spun in place, limbs as loose as a willow in winds, blue eyes drawing in the room. Nothing was perversely out of place, the relative cleanliness indicative of her schedule. Between himself, her career, and her private life, Clara did what she could with what free time she allotted.

Clara's kitchen was smaller, but a decent enough size for her wants. He opened everything with hinges, cursed at those things that appeared to open and did not, and distractedly colour coordinated the spices in the pantry. It was only when he felt satisfied to have left an impression on the room when he noticed the package on the counter. Concealed perfectly in plain sight, it was too easy for The Doctor to have seen first. Deft fingers unwrapped it, the scent stronger with oxygen rushing across the contents.

Meat. It wept red after hours of neglect, and was malleable to the touch. His mind raced as he rinsed his hands clean of the blood, impossibly dark or unfortunately tender scenarios flashing in front of his eyes. He lingered on the latter, perhaps too long, entertaining the idea that a surprise holiday with PE was in progress. Clara was, after all, in love with him.

The sound of running water attracted the attention of another, and The Doctor became acutely aware that he was no longer alone.

"Cla - what are you doing here?"

"I am the one who should be asking that question," Danny Pink snapped back, his tone matching that of the snippy Scot as he entered the kitchen. There was a bag at his feet, and a hint of the duvet peeking from the top of it explained its future disappearance. Pink pushed past him with the posture of a dressed knight, his armor resilient save for the look in his eyes. "Do you just pop in whenever you feel the fancy to, Doctor? In her bedroom?"

"Where is she?" He spoke barely above a whisper, the severity gone from his face. He recognized the expression Pink wore. He saw it before in another time, through different eyes, on different faces. "Clara. Where is she?"

Danny avoided the question for a moment, sliding the spoiled meat into the bin, strangling the liner closed with a violent knot. There was a time when his exterior could easily bury the turmoil which brimmed just below the surface, but after a few years of civilian life, Pink was less inclined to maintain the stony façade soldiering required of him. The marble of his shoulders crumbled as if he was withdrawing into himself; hiding from the eyes he felt so heavily on the back of his neck.

"Royal London Hospital," he exhaled, glancing over his shoulder at the volatile presence in the room. He saw this man violent and reckless, veins coursing with shouts of frustration and insult, fury brimming on every line of his face. Danny didn't have the energy required to deal with another onslaught, and he knew it showed in his face. "She was admitted last night. The nurse said she was attacked. I came to get some things to make her more comfortable, they don't think she'll be home for some time."

The Doctor was still. He tasted harsh words perched on his tongue, insults he could easily land on the soldier to mask the overwhelming things he felt. Never before had he considered the plausibility that Clara would come to harm without his being there. She trusted him, and he was always there to assist her should the situation arise. But where was he last night? It was difficult to remember, his own patterns of keeping time as distracted as a child's. Mentally, he was swimming in a relentless current, drowning in it, suffocating from the inside out.

"Bring the frilly pillows," was all he could muster as he stared through Danny, his hands twitching, "she likes those."


	2. Silence

A few hours passed, but now he counted each second with agonizing precision. After his encounter with Pink, he sent the Tardis into a slow orbit around the Earth. He required a new perspective. He wanted space for his thoughts. _What better space than space_, he thought coldly, the doors thrown open as he watched the world from above.

The universe was full of beautiful wonders, too many to see in the short span of a human's life, but that did not stop him from trying to share them with a companion. If given the opportunity, he could stretch a single day into weeks, and the wealth of worlds not even known to the human race would be hers. He was willing, more than willing, to call what was his, hers. Clara would call that love, but he knew it to be something far deeper than that. Something he could not explain in words, but rather wished to convey in actions and experiences, which required her to truly see him. At times she was blind to this, and it frustrated him beyond his level of patience.

As the sun rose across North America, he saw himself crossing the expanse of the Appalachians with Clara, her eyes round and fixed on the small family of genetically mutated, hopping ducks they had been tracking through the shrubbery. When the sun set in Asia, there they were, running for cover along the beginnings of what would become the Great Wall of China. Where he looked did not matter – she was etched into everything. She was the first face this face saw, and now she was everywhere and nowhere all at once. And he was deeply conflicted.

For the first time in a while, he was unsure of what was expected of him. Navigating a situation was easier with professional detachment; however, what he felt for Clara could not be classified in the realms of 'professional.' Indifference came with professionalism. He could not feign indifference for her.

The Doctor leaned forward until his chest breached the open doors of the Tardis, his hands grasping the doorway as he shifted all of his weight on the balls of his feet. He looked as if he were planning to dive into the vastness of the galaxy, like an estranged man bent to taking the fall. His mouth opened wide, teeth flashing as the veins and muscles along the length of his neck tensed in strain. His eyes were sealed from the beauty of the universe, his knuckles white with the viciousness of his grip as his knees threatened to buckle from exertion. Flushed, he turned his back on the stars.

_No one can hear you screaming in space, _he thought, and the Tardis felt smaller on the inside.


	3. Wisdom

Danny Pink was pacing quietly around Clara's room in The London Royal, each turn crisp with discipline, each glance in her direction observant with habit. Thursday night was replaying in his mind over and over; he could recount every detail of her voice, the sobs of agony which broke him bit by bit as she phoned him from some London street. He tried to persuade her to stay on the line, get more information on her location, but the connection went dead.

He dressed hurriedly as he called the police. They told him he was not the first to call in about the incident, and that medics were on the way. He demanded to know where they would take her, and when they finally disclosed the information, he left to meet them at the hospital.

As clearly as he could see himself in the reflection of the sliding glass doors, he could see the doctors scrambling to get a better view, nurses calling for a lane to be made, the dishevelment of her clothes as they wheeled the stretcher through the hall. The smell of cleaning fluid lingered in his nostrils, and he could not look away from the blanketed unconsciousness of her face. Pink had a knack for vivid memory, and such was the curse that kept him from sound sleep at night, and from hearing the footfalls of the doctor who entered the room.

"Come with me," the man commanded quietly, tearing Danny from his thoughts. It took every ounce of control for him to not instinctively lash out at the sudden ambush. There was something familiar about the lilt he heard, the eyes that were both forceful and sad, but he did not think much of it. After spending three days in the hospital by Clara's side, he would not be surprised if he recognized every person on the floor. The doctor appeared to have just come from from surgery, the mask, gloves, and head cover still in place, his scrubs the uniformed pale blue of all the other workers. Pink complied without question, leaving her room and watching the wings full of patients and doctors, nurses and families pass by without any notice of their movements.

It was in his observing that he looked more closely at the doctor, who glanced back at him every now and then. Aside from his odd manner there was something flagging in the fact that his scrubs ended several inches above his ankles.

"Excuse me," Danny bid, lengthening his stride until they were side by side, "may I see some identification?"

Wordlessly the doctor produced a wallet fit for flashing identification, the credentials the same as those of his fellow colleagues. Save for one thing.

"Doctor The Doctor, is it?" Danny sighed as they turned into an emergency stairwell, the alarm tampered and not sounding. "What are you playing at t-"

"Question," The Doctor interrupted loudly, his voice echoing through the stairwell as he removed the gloves, mask, and head cover. "What would you do? With time, with all the resources of the universe in your hand, what would you do?"

"What wou–"

"Shut up," he chided. Danny folded his arms slowly, watching The Doctor as he walked backwards down a half flight of stairs and into the Tardis. "Now, think."

Danny exhaled loudly, but listened. He considered himself helpless; there was nothing he could do but be there for Clara until she bid him to go away. But him, The Doctor, he could go back to that night and keep her in, or take her out to ride on polar bears, or to a far off galaxy where everything was blue. He could prevent it all from happening. It was clear that to him that The Doctor resolved to do none of those things since their meeting on Friday, as Tuesday morning slowly dawned with the passing hours.

He approached the Tardis slowly, peering inside before fully stepping into view through the doorway. A remarkable work of technology, he admitted, thinking of the wonders Clara mentioned seeing.

"Come in, or get out," The Doctor called from the second floor, the scrubs discarded over the back of an armchair. "Don't just stand there like a lost toddler in a candy shop."

"I would go back and save her," Danny replied, crossing the threshold. He stood straighter upon entering, not quite at attention, but not entirely at ease. "Stop it all from happening in the first place."

"I've thought of that."

"Then why haven't you done it?"

"Because there's more to time travelling than popping back and forth, and leaving a mark on everything that has ever happened. Influence has consequence."

"How can there be negative consequences to helping Clara?"

"There may not be, but one must consider the possibility of positive consequences stemming from her attack."

"I am not sure I follow."

For a second there was silence between them, the only sound coming from their movements around the Tardis. Danny remained on the ground floor, patrolling clockwise paths along the console; The Doctor loomed from the second floor, pacing counter-clockwise along the rails.

"Forget the time traveling," The Doctor sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. He felt as restless as he looked, his exterior gradually portraying the internal distress he was at war with. "What are you planning to do?"

"There is nothing I can do," Danny stated, matter of fact, "but see to it that I'm here for Clara now, when she needs someone most."

"Not the answer I was looking for," he chimed darkly, fingers unconsciously disheveling his hair as he leaned against the railing. Pink considered him for a moment and was thankful for their unintentional distance.

"Pardon?"

"Come on, what would you really do?"

"I-"

"All of that training and you aren't going to use it."

Danny blinked, an exasperated groan escaping his lips as he realized precisely what The Doctor was hinting at. He threw his hands wide, as if to encompass the room, before tossing them to his sides.

"What, you expected me to say I was intending on going after them who did this?" He glared, taking his turn to rub at his eyes, bat away the hours of sleep he refused to take and the memory of being on the other end of the phone, no noticeable help in the situation.

"Of course I did!" The Doctor almost shouted, his hands slamming heavily upon the railing. The vibration of his ring upon the steel gave voice to the tense, discordant atmosphere the Tardis suddenly took on.

"She needs someone to be-"

"Hardly worth the-"

"-by her side-"

"-effort of finding the soldiering type-"

"-not off looking for those-"

"-if he can't act when it is-"

"-responsible!"

"-necessary!"

"You're just miffed that what you want right now goes against everything moral you believe in," Danny hollered, the authority of his voice piercing. The Doctor could only blink, his hands wringing the rail as if it were a towel to dry. "If soldiers are so destructive, so mindless, why is it that every instinct pulling on you right now is telling you to become one?"

Silence clung to every surface in the Tardis as words weighed heavily on both of their minds. Some time passed before either cared to exhale, the chest of one rising with truth as the other fell in a semblance of shame.

"Here you are, then, a Time Lord," Pink could only watch as his remarks wafted upwards, stories which spilled happily from Clara's lips playing like a record in his mind as he spoke evenly, "all of that intelligence and wisdom, all of that experience traversing around and saving lives, and you cannot bring yourself to justify wanting to protect the one pers-"

"Have you ever seen what wisdom looks like during circumstances such as these?" The Doctor interrupted quietly, his steely blues eyes unreadable as he laid them upon Pink. There was an overwhelming grief clinging to him, dragging him into the depths of what he declared he would never remember. "It's true, what Clara's told you. I have saved planets. I have given new hope to races you will never know, saved lives and seen many lost."

He circled the second level as he spoke, only coming to a rest when he reached the expanse of book shelves he installed shortly after gaining control of his regenerative balance. He enjoyed the small library, and was quite pleased with the variety of works present. Austen, Yeats, Faulkner, sharing the company of Gallifreyan scholars and philosophers, manuscripts of dead languages giving breath to immortal wisdom, and histories of races both familiar and strange lines the shelves. Wisdom.

Without warning, he lifted one of the hardbound works in his hand, the name Goethe flashing gold on the spine as The Doctor threw it from the balcony.

"I have never knowingly taken Clara into a situation where I did not consult literature on the planet, or species," The Doctor growled more to himself, his back turned to Danny as he lifted more selected texts from the shelves. "Wisdom from words, keeping us alive and well."

They followed The Sorrows of Young Werther, cascading heavily from the second floor, bumping and turning before landing harshly on the floor. Pink backed away slowly, brown eyes focused on what unraveled before him. The Doctor opened texts wildly, pages tearing under his influence, spilling through the air as he pursued his tirade. This was not anger; the man that destroyed and dismantled looked as defeated as the novels and philosophies which rained from his hands. His face contorted, all lines etched deeply with frowns and the fracturing of control. The assault lasted several moments, and ended with a final sweeping of his arm, the remaining books on the fourth shelf scattering around The Doctor's feet.

When he believed it to be over, Danny moved through the wreckage, the papers and books strewn through the Tardis all sharing a common theme. He could not help looking over them, the titles and authors seeming to call out to him. T.S. Elliot here. Aristotle there. Each and every text penned by a recognizable name, someone who inhabited the world he knew and loved. He glanced to the shelves, understanding now that the empty fourth shelf had contained works specifically pertaining to earth, each one now thrown from order.

"What good is wisdom when it cannot protect the people you care for most?" The Doctor exhaled as he descended the stairs, his eyes rimmed red and shining, shoulders bowing under an invisible weight. "There is no wisdom or experience to prepare you for circumstances such as these."

Pink would not admit it then, but he was moved by the gesture, moved by the distress The Doctor was in. When the Skovox was in Coal's Hill he found the man to be cold and careless, freely willing to endanger anyone for the end means of his own furthering. While he understood that the source of his resentment was grounded in his care for Clara, he did not realize the extent of what she truly meant to him. He could see it now in his disheveled state, the lines under his eyes which were accentuated with emotion, the tangible sense of loss that poured from his posture. There always came a time when even the most outwardly composed individuals fell apart at the seams; all that was required was the right amount of loss.

"You asked me what I would do," Danny spoke carefully as The Doctor approached him, "and hoped that I would answer with ideas about taking justice into my own hands."

Silence.

"But I don't think you want me to do anything. I think you want confirmation that you are not alone in what you're feeling."

The Doctor considered Pink for a moment before nodding curtly in affirmation, quietly dismissing him with a single look. Danny understood without issue, accepting that their conversation had achieved its point. Danny was offered a revealing glimpse into the inner workings of a very private man, and as he made his way towards the doors of the Tardis, he understood the importance of it. There was a truce, of sorts, which allowed them to care for Clara in their own ways. While Danny was not aware of how close The Doctor was to Clara during her recovery, he was certain that the man before him was not standing idle.

When Pink exited the Tardis, The Doctor paced through the papers and spines scattered about him, his mind playing through the revelations and reassurances he came to recognize. He spent some time sliding books into organized piles with his foot, his hands buried within his pockets. Quietly, he bent to lift a novel from the floor, his fingers tracing carefully along the golden letters of the title. For the first time in a while his lips twisted in a private smile, and, and, pocketing the text close to his two hearts, he followed Pink from the Tardis.


	4. Promises

Clara was in stable condition, the heart rate monitor clasping to her forefinger producing proof of the methodical beat of her heart. Deep, angry bruises highlighted the gentle rise of her left cheekbone, the bridge of her nose brandishing stitches to match those braided along her eyebrow. Beneath the surface her cheek bone was partially fractured, and her brain worked slowly in its broken state to mend a concussion.

For the first time in two days Danny had settled into the armchair beside her bed to sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest almost in unison with the pulse emitted from the heart monitor. In the four complete days of Clara's admittance, she did not stir from rest, and the doctors were thankful of such. The medication trailing through her veins was enough to reduce the pain, but not at levels to numb it entirely.

In those four days, Clara was never alone. In those four days, Danny was rarely alone with Clara. There were moments when the hairs raised on the back of his neck, and the familiar sensation of something standing dangerously close by, breathing upon him struck him. He never dared to turn, his conscious reminding him that that feeling meant don't look round.

It was nothing sinister; simply a matter of reversing light waves.

Quietly, The Doctor drew closer to her bedside, fingers softly smoothing over the bruises on her right hand. He continued to trail up her arm, over the bruises on her wrist, feeling the muscles beneath as they healed from the strain of defending herself. They found skin under her finger nails; whoever attacked her did not walk away without a reminder of his crime. Analysis of the cells was underway, but in the time it would take to identify the attacker, he would surely be well on his way.

She looked better than on Thursday night when they first brought her in, the doctors fumbling over themselves, trying to look more important than the last. The amount of blood warping the soft tones of her clothes, dampening her hair and coating her skin was enough to send anyone into a violent panic; the only reason The Doctor could refrain from falling into it with the others was his knowledge of the future. He watched as Danny followed them and politely refused to listen to nurses when they asked him to step aside. Once they brought Clara to a room for examination, he complied; The Doctor, however, slipped inside without notice.

The watch allowed him access to everything and anyone, and he was there to ensure that the treatment Clara received was nothing short of immaculate. They worked well into the night, assessing wounds and sealing them with stitches, scheduling x-rays and MRI's for the morning, and making her more comfortable with medication and pillows. He politely averted his eyes when nurses came and carefully changed her from her clothing and bathed the blood from her skin.

When they finally left for the night to give her rest, The Doctor watched from within her room as Danny paced through the night, a silent and worried guard not permitted entrance. Into the early hours of Friday morning he told her stories of his past, and of the places where he loved to traverse time and time again. He promised to take her there when she was better.

"Clara," The Doctor whispered, kneeling by her bedside, his hand still atop of hers, "Clara, I know somewhere in there you can hear me."

He glanced towards Danny cautiously, pausing only for a second to ensure that his sleep was sound.

"I just want you to know, no matter the time it takes for you to recover, no matter the help you may need, or the space you may want, I will be right here for you. There is nowhere in this galaxy, or the next, that I would rather be. The world can wait. The universe can wait. There is nothing more important. If I am to you, who you are to me..."

The Doctor trailed off, a gentleness mingling with the sadness in his eyes. He knew he was many things to many people, but he was never entirely sure who he was to Clara. He knew who he wanted to be, who he could be, but that depended entirely on her. He withdrew his hand and pulled the novel from his breast pocket, placing it upright on the nightstand by her bed.

"I will always be here, but there is something I must do for you first," he concluded, his voice grave, but firm in the decision he made. "Goodnight, my Impossible Girl."


	5. Assault

The Doctor released the lever at the Tardis console after a long moment of contemplation, the amount of times he checked the correctness of the date he traveled to nearing double digits. This was the second time he made his way back to Thursday night. The first time, it was to be certain that Clara was treated with care on her arrival at The Royal London. Now, it was about justice.

Crossing the Tardis and stepping into his bedroom, he his coat from his bed and wrapped it tight around his shoulders. He regarded himself in the mirror, satisfied with the complete blackness of his attire. He placed his Sonic and the mobile phone he 'borrowed' from Pink in the back pocket of his trousers, and made his way to the street.

He watched from the shadows as Clara exited her home, a glance to the watch on his wrist telling him it was 21:24. She was carrying a small purse, her outfit somehow different from the one engraved into his mind. He wondered for a moment if he was correct on his timing, until it dawned on him; her attire seemed different because it lacked blood.

The Doctor adjusted the watch and activated it as he walked towards her, light bending around him as he strode about unseen. She was walking at a comfortable pace, no hurry in her strides, no worry in her posture. From his distance behind her he could smell the perfume she regularly wore, the light, pleasant scent of an open meadow filling his nostrils.

As they progressed along the street, Clara and her unseen companion, the lights became sparser and the alleyways between shops grew darker and darker. He glanced about them every so often, keeping track of the closest landmark and street sign; otherwise, he kept his eyes on her.

The Doctor considered the situation heavily, his mind winding through different scenarios as he side stepped the pile of dried leaves which would have given him away. He envisioned the attack, played out pursuing or disabling the culprit in his mind, but was unsure as to which would actually be most beneficial for Clara's future. While he would have liked nothing more than to protect her, he could not deny the fact that the affectionate attention she was receiving from Pink was a positive. She said that she loved him; this was his opportunity to show that he loved her as well. So far, Pink was the man she needed him to be.

Clara was just an arm's reach away when she cried out in shock, a gloved hand pulling her into an alleyway via the straps of her purse. The Doctor rushed in after them, maintaining a close distance as he watched them struggling to lay claim to the bag.

The man was young, perhaps thirty years old, and he was dressed in worn out jeans and a dark shirt. He wore no mask, had no hat or shades to obscure his identity, and every contour of his face was burned into The Doctor's mind. His brow furrowed in rage, and he pulled the mobile from his back pocket, hastily phoning the police.

"Help!" Clara yelled, losing the upper hand as roughly he grabbed her wrist. "Somebody, please!"

The Doctor felt his hearts breaking, but he forced himself to bide his time. He watched as the man pulled her roughly against him, cringed when he shouted in her ear. He maintained the same distance from them, stepping closer when he pulled her further away, dropping back when her fight brought them closer. The dispatcher on the phone repeated her question, 'What is your emergency? Hello, what is your emergency?'

Clara grunted as he lifted her from her feet in an effort to subdue her, and as he did so she drove her nails deep into his right cheek and pulled. Blood swelled on his cheek, and the man released her to clutch at his broken skin. After a swift kick to his privates, Clara was off.

"Ambulance needed, alleyway between Smith's Chips at the intersection of Victoria and Station Road," The Doctor breathed quietly into the mobile. "Hurry."

The Doctor knew it wasn't over, but for a moment he was joyous that she had a head start as she fled from her attacker's presence. But the man was enraged, and the thought of getting away without being caught was not enough to satiate the anger he felt.

"You bitch!" He flung himself in her direction, his long strides catching up to her with ease.

"He-" Clara began, cut short by the jerking of her collar when the man caught up with her.

"Cla-"

The sound of bone colliding with bone sent a sickening chill through the air. The pain was excruciating, dark spots blurring her vision as she looked for her an escape. Her head throbbed dangerously, and she felt horrendously dizzy and sick to her stomach. She wanted to shout, wanted for someone to hear her pleas, but the movement of her jaw as she opened her mouth was too painful to push through.

The Doctor watched in distress as the man spun her around, Clara's balance suffering as he held her upright by the grip he had on her wrist. He connected another blow to her nose, followed by a quick hook to her temple. She collapsed with little effort to catch herself, blood already thickly coating the soft surface of her skin. The man stripped her of her purse and stood over her with an air of triumph.

The Doctor rushed to Clara, kneeling by her side, staying invisible as the man remained looming over her. He looked deep in contemplation, but it was not until he lifted his knee and began to drive his heel down towards Clara's face that The Doctor understood why he stayed.


	6. Awake

"Danny."

There was a voice that he heard behind closed eyes, it beckoned to him from the void of sleep. He glanced about him from within, his hands clasped tightly around the M4 Carbine he picked up from the dust covered road. The area was quieter than usual, the children who once crowded him and his squad mates gone from sight. Something was amiss.

"Danny."

He turned sharply in place, looking for the voice that called to him. He could see him now, walking towards him, shrouded in dust which picked up from beneath his feet. There was something amiss, and he was walking towards him. He looked for the children, looked for his squadron, but found no one but him.

Again, he heard his name, the word formed on his lips, but the voice was not his own.

"Stop where you are," he commanded, adjusting the weapon in his hands.

He walked towards him, undeterred by the gun, unheeding of his words.

"If you do not stop, I will use force."

He walked towards him. Pink looked for the children, but there were none. Something was amiss.

"I said stop!"

He raised the weapon and pointed it towards him, his finger straight by the trigger.

"Danny," he called to him, moving his right hand within his jacket, but he could not see what he was reaching for.

"Show me your hands, please," he demanded it of him, his own shaking around the steal of the weapon. "Show me your h-"

He withdrew his hand quickly, the object in his hands unclear with the speed of his movement and the dust in the air. And then he collapsed.

It was a reaction born from fear, and for a moment, the only sound Danny could hear was the explosion of the round igniting from within the carbine. Time slowed, and he could see the bullet strike the man's chest, over, and over, and over again.

He did not remember moving, but in his daze his feet carried him to the spot in the road where the dust ran red. Administer care to the casualty, he heard his squad leader yell to him in a recent memory. His hands shook and he looked for the children.

Blindly he kneeled in the road, pressing his hands firmly to the bullet wound he created. The man was shifting uncomfortably, watching him from distant eyes. Only he was not a man at all. He was a boy.

And he was not reaching for a gun. Only a camera.

Without seeing he wet his hands with blood, his heart racing as he looked for the other children.

"Danny."

He heard his name once more, but it was not his own; it was sweeter sounding, softer upon his ears. It beckoned to him from the darkness, and he looked to the face of the boy he was administering to. But he was longer him; he was her.

He changed without him knowing, the blood on her blouse seeping into his hands, the gash on her eyebrow bathing her face in crimson pools. She was bleeding to death, and he felt himself pulling away. He felt himself stirring, retreating from the terrified look in her eyes.

"Danny," she whispered sweetly, her mouth red.

He tried to stay, tried to keep his hands upon the wound in her chest, but he was pulled away. She was pulling him away.

"Danny."

Pink started from his place on the chair, his neck stiff from the lack of support it offered him. He could feel his heart pounding, drumming in his ears, fighting with the soothing pulse of the heart monitor next to him.

Clara watched him worriedly, the look on his face new and terrifying, his eyes shining and red.

"Danny," she bade him, eyes never leaving him.

When he heard his name he looked at Clara properly, and for a moment he wondered if he was still asleep. The sad smile in her eyes confirmed that he was indeed awake, and he reciprocated with one on his lips.

"Hello," she whispered.

"Hi," he returned, quietly shifting the chair as close as it could go to her bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Never better," she replied smartly, rethinking the levity after receiving a pleading look.

"Clara."

"Tired, and sore," Clara spoke weakly, eyes closed, "and as if I am hearing, and seeing you through some sort of cloud."

"That'll be the medication," he offered, carefully taking her hand in his. "I should probably get the doctor."

"Is he here?"

She was suddenly more alert, more excited than she would have normally let on. The heart monitor betrayed her as it signaled the quickening of her pulse, and she felt a blush creeping into her cheeks as Danny looked from her to the machine.

"I meant the medical kind," he corrected her blandly, no hint of anything in his voice.

"Oh," she exhaled.

He watched her for a long, tense moment, and she attempted a reassuring smile.

Tears sprung to her eyes at the expression, the pain in her cheek beyond anything she ever knew. She gasped sharply, and Danny was out the door before she could ask him to do anything.

"Nurse, we need a doctor in here!"


	7. Defender

"No!"

The Doctor growled as he launched himself forward, catching the man before he was able to complete his intended action. Long arms wrapped securely around the other's chest as they both collapsed, the man horrified by the unseen force that knocked him from his feet. He pushed and scrambled away from where he lie, the purse still clutched in his fist. His eyes were searching wildly for signs of whatever got in his way.

Should he have been able to see The Doctor, he would have seen a grey haired, elderly gentleman with unaltered hatred etched in every furious line on his face. He was crouched low, ready to pounce, his lips peeled back in a snarl, eyes focused and unblinking.

The man scrambled wildly to his feet, his footfalls heavy as he tore towards the back of the alley. The Doctor glanced back to Clara, who, panting and crying, was fumbling with the keypad of her mobile. She was not aware that he had already phoned the police, and he could not be sure who her intended was, but he was relieved to at least see her conscious.

With a final look he left her, the sound of sirens reaching his ears as he tracked the man through the darkened alleyways of London. You know she will be fine, you saw her. She will be fine...

His jaw was clenched as he sprinted after the man, who was carelessly loud in his movements. The Doctor, on the other hand, was light on his feet and silent as he navigated the streets. He quickly closed the distance between himself and the assailant, despite his rather uncoordinated way of running. He was a man with purpose, and he would be damned if he did not see it through.

After a sharp right turn, The Doctor entered an alley with only one entrance, Clara's attacker leaning against a wall, rummaging through her purse. He reached for his watch as he approached him, deactivating its programming and stepping into what little light there was.

"Proud."

The man started, looking up from his preoccupation with Clara's Visa.

"W-"

"Shut up, you don't get to talk."

He continued towards the man, his coat unbuttoned and slightly billowing behind him. If it were not for his apparent age, the assailant would have been more worried by his sudden presence. The Doctor only stopped when he knew he was within an arm's distance of the man, his sinewy hands clenching and releasing in anticipation.

"Hand over her belongings," he commanded coldly, his lilt thick from adrenaline, "and we can both be on merry our way."

"Fuck off then," the man barked, laughing as he replaced Clara's wallet into her purse, "what do you think I am, a twat?"

"Language," he reprimanded, looming closer. He was a few inches taller, though certainly less muscular than the younger man. Although, he considered, I haven't done too bad in this body. "Last chance."

Wordlessly, the man reached forward, feigning an offer of the purse. The Doctor never took his eyes off of the other's as he moved to take it. Just when his fingers brushed the soft material, the man grabbed his wrist and lashed out.

Quickly he side stepped the assault and dealt a swift blow to the man's elbow, forcing him to involuntarily release his wrist. He had no time to retaliate further, for the man lunged, throwing his body weight against The Doctor's wiry frame. He stumbled back to recover his balance, but it offered an advantage to the young man, who came at him with a forceful jab.

A grunt escaped The Doctor's lips as contact was made with his left eye, his vision blurring slightly as he lifted his hands in front of his face for protection. The man was relentless, striking blindly against ribs and arms, snarling all the while. When he managed to get another punch in, connecting squarely with The Doctor's mouth, the latter reactivated the watch on his wrist to escape the onslaught.

Breathing hard and bleeding, he wiped along his chin, watching as the young man turned about in bewilderment. Quietly, The Doctor once more stepped towards him, the diplomatic ending he hoped for no longer on his mind.

The man stilled, listening intently for any signs of where the elder man could have disappeared to. He began to back away towards the exit of the alley when he heard beeping behind him, and when he turned in place he was met with a ring laden and bony fist.

He shouted in surprise and pain, a hand groping at the freshly bleeding cheek he had almost forgotten about. When he looked for The Doctor, he was gone again, and the pace of his heart quickened anxiously. He had no time to think calmly, as his challenger reappeared before him, this time delivering a smart blow to his mouth.

The Doctor grimaced and looked at his hand, his knuckles bruised and raw from the impact of teeth and bone. He glanced up to see the man doubled over, spitting blood from his lips and glaring.

"Reconsidering?" He questioned breathlessly, wincing at the ache in his ribs as he straightened his posture.

The man shouted nonsense and rushed at him in response, a move The Doctor was wholeheartedly expecting. He quickly stepped out of the man's blind path and grasped his collar, using the man's momentum to drive him forward against one of the brick walls the alley comprised of. The sound of impact should have been sickening. Any normal person would have felt their insides churn at the position which the man collapsed in, his unconscious form dropping like a rag doll.

The Doctor stood over him, slowing his breathing as he once more wiped blood from his chin. Without much hesitation he bent down alongside the man and checked his pulse, assessed his injuries, and carefully adjusted his limp form into a more natural position.

He was in a considerable amount of pain, but he was once told that fear did not have to make him cruel, and so he found the man's mobile and phoned the police, leaving the device by his side as a dispatcher spoke on the other line.

Fear did not have to make him cruel, so he listened, and he did as he was told.

Lifting the purse from the street, he made his way back to the Tardis, and from there, he returned to the night he spoke to Danny Pink in The London Royal's stairwell.


	8. Folly

"Miss Oswald, I'm Doctor Tom Jackman," the doctor greeted her, his heavy Irish lilt making music of her name, "how are you feeling, aside from the obvious?"

"Alright, yeah, a bit foggy," Clara answered, watching Jackman as he looked between her charts and the IV beside her bed.

"How's the pain?"

"Noticeable," she sighed, closing her eyes and resting her head back, "my head is throbbing."

"Understandable," he responded, adjusting the frequency of her IV drip, "you have a bit of a concussion. We've given you some medication to numb the pain you feel, but we don't want to cloud any symptoms which may develop."

"It hurts when I make facial expressions?"

"Your left cheek is slightly fractured," Jackman sat in the chair beside her bed, still warm from its previous inhabitant. "You have stitches in your left brow, the bridge of your nose, and the latter is broken."

Clara listened silently as fuzzy bits of memory started to piece themselves together, growing larger in focus as the seconds wore on. She saw the alleyway, felt angry hands on her wrist, the pull of her purse strap on her shoulder. She could feel tears forming beneath closed eyes, and the gentle hand on hers meant that Jackman could see she was upset.

"Miss Osw-"

"You can call me Clara."

"Clara," he resumed, holding her gaze when she opened her eyes, "it is quite normal to be upset. What happened to you is not...pleasant. But it is okay to feel as you do, just remember that you're not alone."

She did not feel alone.

"We contacted fami-"

But she did not feel alone.

"-and the gentleman in the hall-"

"Danny, yes, good," Clara interrupted, nodding slowly, "yes, he's um, my boyfriend."

"I thought as much," Jackman replied with a smile, his teeth remarkably white and sharp, "he hasn't left your bedside without threat. I've had to remind him more than once to eat, but from the look of your set up, he seems to have an idea of what's best for you."

For a moment Clara was confused as the doctor let out a soft laugh, rising from the chair. It wasn't until she looked about her that she realized the bed she was in was fitted with her own pillows and duvet, the familiar aroma of her flat coming through the disinfected scent of the room. She could not help the slight upward tug on her lips as she ran her hands along the frilly pillows she adored.

"I upped your IV drip, so you may feel knackered after a bit," Doctor Jackman smiled warmly, his brown eyes light. "Don't fight it, alright? You've done enough of that this week."

Clara only nods in response, thanks conveyed in the smile of her eyes. She did feel tired, and as she watched Jackman leave, she wondered just how long she had lain here. Days, it seemed, from the look of Danny.

She could not tell how much time she was alone, the moments seemed to linger and pass without any quantifiable measure. She wondered if this was how The Doctor felt, day in and out.

"Hey, you," Danny broke her thoughts gently, a hesitant smile on his lips.

"Danny," she greeted him, and it felt like the first time.

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday. Around 3 a.m."

Silence. Four entire days passed without her. Four days she would never get back, and for what? A purse?

"Doctor Jackman told me they have the guy, what did this," Danny offered cautiously, not wishing to upset her.

"How does he know?"

"He's being treated here."

Clara was surprised by this development. She exhausted her memory of the night, searched for the information that she may have done enough to get him caught. A chill ran through her arm as she recalled the sensation of digging her nails through his cheek.

"The police got to him, then?"

"No, not the police," Danny answered, easing himself into his chair. "They found him unconscious in an alley. From the sound of it, whoever got to him did quite the job."

Danny shifted uncomfortably as he reached back to swipe at his neck, the hairs standing upright. When he saw Clara looking at him oddly, he shrugged the action off as if he were rubbing out the muscles of his neck.

"Thank you, Danny," Clara smoothed her hand along her duvet, welcoming him to take it.

"For what?" He asked, taking her hand in his own.

"Doctor Jackman mentioned that you've been a nuisance," she teased lightly, "and you've redecorated wonderfully."

Danny laughed, finally giving her a genuine smile. He was relieved to see that despite everything, she was not one to be defeated. Clara hummed thoughtfully in response, afraid to be too expressive, and as she swept her gaze around the room she almost gasped at the previously unnoticed presence on her nightstand.

"Did you?" Clara questioned, slowly reaching for the novel.

"No," Danny responded, shifting again.

Clara had a feeling that he didn't, but if he did, she did not want to insult him by assuming otherwise. She traced her fingers thoughtfully over the golden title, each letter dipped into the worn cover. The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire.

"Danny, I have to ask," she began with a hint of hesitation. "The Doctor...has he been 'round?"

Clara listened quietly as Danny told her what he knew of him. He saw him twice in the past four days, and was the one to inform him that she was in hospital. He told her about their conversation in the Tardis, how he seemed unsure of what he was meant to do. Pink had a feeling that the injured man, somewhere in The London Royal, was a product of what The Doctor finally decided was his purpose. While he did not vocalize this explicitly, Clara made the connection herself.

Clara's cheeks reddened at the idea of him rushing off, endangering himself. And for what? She was unsure if she felt relief that the man was lying in hospital, just as she was, injured beyond his control. Surely him being in some form of custody was a good thing; he didn't have the opportunity to grab another unwitting person from the streets for their belongings.

"I can see that he cares for you, Clara," Danny spoke carefully, "I just don't know how much of him you should be a part of."

Clara didn't respond. She allowed silence to linger between them until he could explain himself better, or else she would not speak on the matter. The last time they met in her presence, there was animosity between them. Whether Danny was good enough for her or not was something that The Doctor would measure meticulously, and she knew that there was resentment between them both.

Pink could tell that he was meant to go on, but he had to consider his words with care so as not to offend her, or her judge of character. He did not wish to trouble her; just to offer caution in the form of observation.

"He is reckless with you," Danny continued, lifting his hand when he thought Clara was beginning to protest. "I understand that he pushes you to be a stronger person than you ever believed you could be. I really, truly do. But I saw him, and you told me that lives have been lost, Clara. He is volatile, arrogant, unpredictable; he drags you into his madness."

"You're wrong," Clara stated evenly, without hesitation. "You see him, but you don't truly see him. I'm guilty of the same, but I try to understand. Everything I've ever told you about him, the amazing, the dark, he would wave it all off without second mention.

"I trust him, Danny," she stated, a distant, soft look in her eyes, "because even in his folly, without believing that he is that brave and that compassionate, he does brave and noble things."


	9. Smile

Clara started suddenly from rest, her eyes wide and frantic as she looked about the hospital room. She had the familiar dream of falling from a sudden height, the sensation sending her stomach for a spin. Her breathing evened, the heart rate monitor drumming slower and slower as she relaxed into the bed once more. She listened to the stillness of the morning. The stillness of the room. She told Danny that she would prefer it if he got some rest and returned later in the afternoon; she could barely stand to look at how disheveled he was. All for her. Always for her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she reached for the glass of water resting on her nightstand. Started to reach, at least. Her eyes followed the length of her arm until they came to rest on the noticeable depression on her bed, an unseen weight pressing down on the mattress. It was in that moment that she realized she could not only feel something upon her right hand, but also above the covers upon her knee. Slowly, she brought her left hand to her right, fingers lightly tracing over the weight keeping her from free movement. She felt along the curves of what she determined to be a bony, slender hand, and relief eased the tension in her shoulders. Silly man, she thought, brushing her hand gently along his arm until she found the watch on his left wrist.

Clara felt a tightness in her chest at the sight of The Doctor. He was seated on the edge of the room's armchair, his shoulders hunched forward as he rested his head upon the side of her bed. His left hand held hers, while his right arm was subtly draped along her shin, his right hand sleepily folded upon her knee. His face was turned away from her, and she suffered a small smile.

"Doctor," she whispered, withdrawing her right hand, grazing her fingers through his soft, grey hair. When he didn't respond she nudged his shoulder, gently at first, but with a bit more force when he remained soundly still. "Doctor."

After a moment a low hum permeated the room as he woke, the sound infinitely amusing to Clara, who kept her hand along his shoulder blade. Perhaps he was considering where he was, how he ended up there, but when he seemed to connect the pieces he turned towards her quickly, the movement unkind on his ribs.

"Clara," he breathed with a smile, who was not returning a pleased look when she saw him.

"What the hell happened to you?"

She knew the answer.

"Whatever could you mean?"

He looked at her quizzically, almost convincingly innocent, despite the bruised eye and busted lip he hopelessly ignored.

"Oh, I don't know."

She knew. The hard look in her eyes reminded him of a teacher he once had. Reminded him that he still had one.

"I have something for you," he replied, reaching beneath the bed.

Clara watched him through narrowed eyes. The Doctor watched her through soft ones. He lifted her purse from the floor, but he was not met with the happy expression he was hoping for. Clara's eyes were shining in the dim light of dawn, and her brow was furrowed as deeply as it could be without agitating her stitches.

"Cl-"

"You could have been seriously hurt, or killed," Clara hissed, tears betraying her, "and then what? I would have been here, every day, waiting for you to show. And then I would have been home, staring at the empty space in my living room day in and day out wondering where you had gone. Why you had left me."

"Clara," he crooned, clasping her hand in his own, his thumbs smoothing over her skin. He repeated her name several times, a gentle murmur which closed around her. "I would never leave you. Not in this life, not in my next, not until the end of time. Surely you must know that, you must see..."

The Doctor trailed off sadly, the movement of his thumbs never ceasing. For a while they sat there like that, a comfortable silence between them, their eyes only leaving each other for brief moments.

Hesitantly, he leaned forward and lightly brushed a tear from Clara's cheek, the sadness in his eyes mirrored on the tight smile of his lips.

"You're doing it again," Clara exhaled, slightly taken aback by the tenderness she never experienced with the man before her. She knew he cared. She knew he was not heartless. But he was not outwardly warm; not as he once was.

"Doing what?"

"Smiling, but you're sad," she answered, the words familiar to her ears. "Two emotions at once, Doctor, it's very confusing."

He grinned genuinely at that, gesturing at her expression.

"And you haven't smiled since I've been here."

Clara opened her mouth to form a defense, but something kept her from speaking. This was not them. This, whatever this was, was not how they had gotten on since his regeneration. He did not do this domestic banter and deep, personal concern. She ached for this after the first few times she traveled with him; the contact, the care, the easy conversation that didn't have to have a point. She came to ignore this want, found it elsewhere, and settled on the thrill of experience that he brought her instead.

Ever since she came to know this man, this Doctor, she never did feel quite the same in her ordinary life. There was a struggle, a monotony, a falseness to her cheery exterior. There was the pain of a void.

Which was his fault.

There was a home that he placed in her heart, that only he could fill properly, but she was unsure if he knew that she let him in. She did not know if he understood that she wanted him to come home.

"It hurts when I smile," Clara offered quietly, the words carrying a heavy, unspoken weight.

The Doctor nodded knowingly, a hopeful expression softening the lines of his face.

"I can fix that."


	10. Show Me

The sun shone brilliantly across the surface of the ocean, the warm round pebbles on the beach smooth underfoot as Clara made her way towards the crashing waves. The air was salty and fresh, a slight breeze blowing strands of her richly brown hair across her eyes. She loved the sound of the sea. It was calming and exciting all at once, much like the man wading through the surf with his boots and socks in hand, his trousers rolled above his ankles. Clara was unsure how he spotted the shell which caught his interest from sixty yards away, but she did not protest when he took off, the image of a penguin being chased by a seal coming to mind.

She watched fondly as he talked aloud to himself, splashing his free hand through the withdrawing waters as a new wave swept in. When he looked towards her with an exasperated groan, she shrugged fondly, and he lingered a moment on her face before returning to his search.

Two weeks on and they were both still healing. Clara's stitches were long since removed and soft pink lines were the only remembrance of the gashes that were once there. While the symptoms of her concussion subsided, the sensitivity in her cheek and nose were still present. She would occasionally forget the injuries and wipe at her nose, or rest her cheek in her hand, only to be rudely reminded with stinging eyes. The Doctor was still tending to his ribs without the medical attention Clara recommended he request, and there was still light bruising on his hand and around his eye. Both were nursing the emotional implications of the weeks they shared, from the hospital to her home.

"Ahha!" The Doctor shouted, lifting the shell triumphantly from its place in the wet sand bed.

Clara was reminded of the most eager of her students as he approached her hurriedly, discarding his shoes and socks by their feet. He spoke animatedly, and at length, about the shell; its color and shape variations, the history of it being on this particular beach at this particular time. Her mouth hitched up as she listened in contemplative silence. He was beyond thrilled with this seemingly insignificant item that she saw regularly, and she loved him for it. She loved the way that he found brilliance in commonplace things despite having every wonder in the universe in the palm of his hand.

"What?"

"Hmmm?" Clara blinked quickly, adjusting her line of sight back to his eyes.

"You were gazing off," he spoke quickly, his voice rising and falling in his familiar lilt, "looking pleased, but I was discussing the imminent death of mollusks and the harvesting of their external skeletons for classroom enjoyment...I just, I don't see where those points of conversation warrant that particular look."

"Confusing, isn't it?" she remarked, crossing her arms.

"Mollusks? I thought I explained them quite well."

"I'm not talking about mollusks."

"I was," The Doctor raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response but instead getting a playfully frustrated sigh. "Well, I was."

"I know you were," Clara said, sympathetically patting him on the shoulder. "Go on then, tell me more."

They walked back towards the dunes of the beach, her arm laced within his, his hands occupied with his shoes and the shell as he taught her more. Anyone watching from the promenade which overlooked the shore would have smiled at their manner. Both were engaged in conversation, laughing and leaning towards the other, their voices carrying like songs over the landscape. When they reached the blanket he had previously spread out for their meal, Clara held his hand as she lowered herself to the ground, his grip secure but careful with her. He inhaled and followed suit, wincing slightly at the resulting ache in his ribs, but the smile never left him.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Doctor," Clara grinned cautiously, moving closer to him.

The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement, visibly relaxing as she gently leaned into his side. Over the course of the past few weeks, he grew accustomed to the comfort that physical contact provided, and he did not shy away from her when she wished to be closer to him. In truth, he longed for the familiarity of her touch despite the physical discomfort it usually brought, and he readily eased into her embraces.

"Thank you for indulging me," he offered after a few moments of silence, lifting his right arm to wrap hesitantly around her shoulder. "I knew our return to the TARDIS would have to be without the normal physical stress."

"Of course." Clara placed a hand along his ribcage, smoothing over the fabric of his coat.

It was the first time that the TARDIS had left Clara's living room after the night The Doctor returned to her bedside in the hospital. He did not move forward in time to when she was better, and he did not leave her side to heal and return within five minutes, Earth time. The Doctor and Clara remained in the same time and place for the entirety of the past few weeks, as he could not entertain the thought of being away from her in this time of need.

"Clara, I-" he looked down suddenly, feeling her hand drift from his ribs down to the top of his thigh. He smiled affectionately as he noted her apparent state of sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way she leaned heavier upon him. He reached up and brushed her hair from her face, letting the soft strands slide through his fingers. Gently, he pressed a kiss to her hair, and if he were able to step outside of himself and simply observe, he would have seen her smile.

The Doctor was unaware of her wakefulness, but she did not break the illusion; rather, Clara remained still in thought as he traced soft circles into her shoulder. She knew she loved him. She confessed it once before, and was slowly building the confidence to do so again. But she thought of Danny, of his care, of the fact that their future was intertwined in intimate ways. Is that my future? Clara pondered, her brow crinkling unconsciously. It would seem so. But the future can be rewritten...

She shifted slightly, feigning the signs of waking, and his hand on her shoulder stilled. Clara looked up at him with a warm smile, ignoring the slight twinge in her cheek. The cadence of his hearts changed as his face softened.

"You're smiling," his voice dipped.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You."

"What have I done? Is there something wrong?"

"No," Clara laughed at him, "you make me happy, Doctor."

They remained there a moment, watching each other with long glances. Clara felt herself leaning up towards him, her gaze drifting between his eyes and lips, but he remained unmoved. There was an innocence to him which left him analyzing before understanding the gesture, but once he caught on to her intentions he carefully withdrew.

"I'll take you home," The Doctor suggested, offering his hand.

"Doctor, don't t-"

"Rupert Pink," he interrupted, already on his feet. "You know the fellow? He's a little boy with a presence under his bed, who grows up to become a soldier and maths teacher, saves the planet, and is the ancestor of the last man standing at the edge of the universe."

The Doctor towered over her, the sea breeze playing with his coat. He looked powerful and unsure, and Clara felt frustrated by how right he was in his insinuation. She loved them both, but shared love was not enough. Not for any of them.

"I love you," Clara whispered, pulling on the tassels of the blanket beneath her.

"No, don't Clara-"

"No, I love you, Doctor, and you need to hear it as much as I need to say it."

"What do you want me to say?" He sounded small, hesitant even, as he traced his fingers distractedly.

"Tell me what you feel."

"What I feel?" He repeated, a pained expression in his eyes. "I thought you would have known by now."

"Tell me," she bid, her expression mirroring his.

"I- Clara, I can't," he groaned, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Then show me."

He peered through his fingers as Clara rose to her feet. She stepped closer and he inhaled deeply. Wordlessly, he took her hands in his and placed one on his chest, the other on against the pulse of his throat as he leaned closer.

"Say it again," he murmured close to her ear before leaning back, his blue eyes deep and swimming, and she could see herself in their calm pools. "Tell me again."

Clara hesitated a moment in thought before she felt the words she whispered earlier race through her mind. "I love you, Doctor."

The Doctor watched her closely as he felt the rhythm of his hearts accelerate, her words and touch and warm brown eyes tightening the hold over him that she never realized she had. Clara moved her gaze from his eyes to the hand she had on his throat, the pulse there dancing feverishly beneath her touch. She could feel the same beat against her palm on his chest, and when she looked back into his eyes she saw a darkness in them that he kept carefully hidden from sight.

Clara would call that love, but he knew it to be something far deeper than that. What The Doctor felt for her was something he could not explain verbally, as no combination of any words he knew would be sufficient to express it. But there, in that moment, with her hand above to his hearts and their breath mingling in their closeness, he understood that he could show her. For the first time she could see him, and she loved who she saw.


End file.
